Inevitable
by Cieleste
Summary: Born to rebels, Harry Potter is caught within the horrors of war. As a mere child, he becomes the witness to massacres and bloodshed. Obscured in the shadows of imprisonment, he becomes protected by the darkness, retaining his sanity and innocence within the bowels of degradation and hopelessness, his beauty unnoticed until saved by an unlikely aristocrat. LV/HP
1. Prologue: Beloved

_**Disclaimer:**_ _I do not own the Harry Potter series. No copyright infringement is intended._

I do not ever write fan-fiction. Alas, due to the recent urge to do _something_, I decided to go against my nature— to write. As for updates, I will probably update once a week. Hopefully. Maybe. It took a great deal just to brainstorm a prologue for the story. I don't even want to think about a whole _chapter_.

* * *

**Prologue: Her Beloved**

* * *

War.

.

That very notion—that very _word _created legacies; it created nations that were built on top of the shambles of hopelessness and listlessness.

.

It's a word that's so profound, filled with hatred and loathing, that left bitterness and bile behind, along with such overwhelming grime that would never wash away no matter how many tears were shed; no matter how much blood was spilled, it will always linger.

No matter how much you wished and willed it to.

.

"_War is inevitable," _his mother said, "_just as change is inevitable."_

_._

And, as she gently caressed his face, almost serenely, he couldn't help but to feel a sense of trepidation—a sense of _wrongness _in her words as it held a sort of conclusiveness that made his heart slowly sink with the acceptance of an imminent fate—an impending doom that so very much made his throat ache with each swallowed emotion of immense resentment and apprehension.

"_I hate war,"_ he croaked, voice raw from his pleas and screams from the frequent, agonizing torture that the rebels were subjected to. _"I don't understand. Why do we need change? Why do we need to die?" _And, as he turned to gaze at his melancholic mother, her skin littered with contusion, he immediately regretted his question, yet a part of him still wanted to know the reason for his concurrent suffering.

His mother, who've already acknowledged her fate, held her son's gaze, _her beloved son, _she thought. Her beloved, innocent son, a boy of only five, subjected to a reign of terror due to her mistakes. Her mistakes, her _choices _that had her husband brutally murdered after several days of utmost torture. She was not permitted to see him, or to speak to him, even once. He died for her. For _nothing_.

Her calm demeanor shook, and she swiftly turned from the cell's door to embrace her son. She quietly sobbed, realization sinking in—denial no longer apparent in her facade of dignity and acceptance. _"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I did not want this." _Not for her baby._ "I did not want this." _Not for Harry.

Her embrace, wracked with heart-wrenching sobs, did little to comfort him as he trembled, tightening his hold on her war-torn blouse. As the damp cell bit at his extremities with chilling coldness, he could only stare indescribably at the barred opening of the cell. Lightning flashed from the rainstorm, illuminating his ravaged, emerald eyes, as the night passed by with repeated, broken whispers and promises.


	2. Chapter 1: Beautiful

Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter series. No copyright infringement is intended.

**STOP. DON'T START, **belieeeving.** YOU GOTTA DOUBLE SPACE THE WORDS TO MAKE IT SEEM LONGER (easier to read too) BECAUSE...I can't do it for some reason, and I want to procrastinate before the next chapter.**

So I completed my _first_ chapter! How did I do it, you ask? Well! I spent the WHOLE DAY AND NIGHT(s) not playing any games.

...

I'm gonna' let that statement sink a little more, as it is quite profound.

* * *

_I saw that day,_

_Lost my mind..._

_Lord, I'll find, _

_Maybe in time...you'll want to be mine...__  
_

* * *

**Chapter One: Beautiful**

* * *

Heavy footsteps echoed across the dungeon, as a lone guard strode to the cell of his newest victim.

"Boy._" _He gruffly said.

No answer.

"_Boy!"_

_ "_**Get up!**" He roared. The musty, barred door of a nearby prisoner's cell was harshly shoved open, the corroded metal screeching with the friction against the fetid dungeon floor. The grating sound echoed among the damp, grungy prison, gradually fading, _melding_ with the eerie silence that clung thickly to the putrid air; it was as if death itself was graciously playing a climatic note of it's requiem, written solely for the prodigious despair that shrouded it's audience in a veil of hollowness and utter darkness, leaving faint, lingering whispers of decaying, twisted memories behind on the trail of it's somber tune.

Bleary emerald eyes woke from such a morose sonance, turning towards the source of the discord. Begrimed hands slowly, delicately pushed against the moldered floor; his pitch-black cell was littered with a damp, fungal growth, reeking from the taint of rain and rotting fecal matter. The malodorous, filthy floor grounded against his body as he sat up— the murky substances rippling with the slight movement.

Listless, obfuscous green eyes watched as a dungeon guard roughly entered an equally putrefied cell across from him, brutally shoving a horrified, dark haired boy against the feculent walls of his prison.

_ "_No_. _No, no more,_ please! **I don't know anything! No! **Please, n—"_

A raw, anguished scream permeated through the malefic silence, as the boy was once again subjected to the _cruciatus_ curse. Chipped, yellowed nails haphazardly clawed against the dank, sordid walls of his confinement as the boy desperately attempted to seek a recluse from his relentless tormentor. The boy's harrowing screams did nothing to lighten the searing, excruciating pain he was experiencing throughout his body; his nerves felt as if it was ignited_—_as if fire was growing_—consuming _his body.

White flashes of pain overwhelmed the boy as he started to frantically claw at his skin, vehemently wishing to tear those nerves away. Blood, bright like the fiery geraniums that thrived around the mass graves of the condemned, seeped from elongated, self-inflicted wounds as he convulsed_—_lacerations blooming all over his ragged body by such frenzied, perennial abuse to his own skin.

It was all so _vibrant—_so **beautiful** to his tormentor.

Each convulsion, the man reverently thought, brought forth more, more, _more _blood that unsteadily coursed as if it was a fresh spring surrounded by the corruption of dark magic; just like a hopeful spring cascading to the defiled earth, the exquisite blood that flowed from the tortured boy gradually became immutably tainted as it was embraced by the iniquitous, sinful depths of his ignominious prison.

"Macnair, **stop**_._"

At such command, the sadistic torturer promptly released the boy, the latter unceremoniously collapsing to the repugnant floor with a noticeable thud_—_the aftereffects of the curse causing the boy to aimlessly vellicate with small tremors. Gritting his misaligned, stained teeth, Macnair furiously turned his maniacal eyes to the owner of brusque voice that interrupted him, his shoes grinding against the mixture of bile, blood, and gravel.

"What is it that the_—_" Macnair harshly bit out, "_whore_ wants now, _Evan_?" The man called Evan merely sniffed, subtly covering his nostrils with his hand, and frowned.

"Hardly a 'whore', as you so courteously call her. If _that_ was the only thing Bellatrix was delegated with, I wouldn't be here, under her orders, wouldn't I?" As he said this, Evans deftly flicked his wand into the air, murmuring a sort of charm. Subsequently, the air temporarily became far less rancid.

Satisfied, Evan's wand was once again obscured under his robe as he blithely clasped his meticulous hands behind his toned back, golden cuffs from his fitting suit glinting in the moonlight from the entrance to dungeon's winding staircase. "And it's _Rosier_ to you," he coldly said, contrasting with his seemingly buoyant countenance. "We are much too," he paused, "_distant_ in status for you to be so familiar with me." Terse annoyance was barely concealed within the duelist's words as he languidly walked to the livid death-eater. His intricate, finely tailored robes slightly billowed in the wake of his light, unfaltering steps.

As he reached the barred door of the cell, Evan apathetically glanced at the broken, despondent boy and sighed irritably. "You _do_ know that we are to, ah, _persuade_ the children, to 'teach' them according to our ways, rather than torturing them to the point of near-death and insanity."

_Though_, he observed, _there aren't many left, if any._

The death-eater's eyes narrowed as he scrutinized the other cells, the macabre silence making the shadows shrouding the cages even more...strange. Saving such peculiar information for another time, he returned his gaze to Macnair. "A malleable mind of a child will stop being such if there is no mind left to learn," Evan stated, "thus, no matter how degenerative you are, along with your...quaint tastes, I suggest you find another past time that isn't so pedophilic."

At Evan's scathing, degradative remarks, Macnair snapped, fiercely lashing out, his sallow face wild under the refulgence of the moonlight.

"_You **dare** look down upon me?! I _convinced the giants to join us for our Lord! _I_ was the more useful one! Our Lord _needed_ me!All that I was rewarded was a command to follow a _whore's every whim!_You are nothing but a_—_" Macnair abruptly choked, surprise evident in his bulging, dull-gray eyes as he was suddenly lifted off his feet and slammed against the slick, blighted containment. His dark hair blackened as it stuck to his squalid face, soiled from the mixture of urine and mildew from the wall—aftermaths of prolonged imprisonment.

All the while, Evan Rosier, in all his malevolent, eloquent glory, was still standing in the same place, his long, elegant fingers absentmindedly twirling his wand, almost unassumingly.

_It's starting to rain,_ he mused.

_Plick._

Macnair started to claw at neck, hysterically attempting to remove at the invisible blockade between his contracting bronchial tubes and the thick, nauseating air. His surroundings began to darken, wisps of black particles seemed to viciously seep from Rosier as the man held his gaze frighteningly. Evan's vivid blue eyes seemed to pierce through him with a menacing, authoritative power, along with an deep, underlying madness.

_Plonk._

"_Needed_ you?" Evan hissed, "giants, blithering fools that they are, could be swayed by _any _imbecile. The Dark Lord needs _no one, _especially not a disgraceful, impudent follower._"_

_Plick._

Macnair's repulsive hair clung to his sweaty, filthy skin as he tore at the collar of his blood-crusted, battered robes, frantically trying to breathe_—_his breaths coming out in small, unobtrusive rasps as his calloused hands started to tremble, his mind hazy with pain and suffocation.

_Plonk._

"Now, now, my precious _colleague_," Evan began sweetly, gliding from his place in mock-pacing, "it would all be over_—_" he paused, ebony wand in midair as he seemed to mull over something. A slow, wicked smile spread across Rosier's face as he apparently found a..._solution_.

_Plick._

"—as soon as you _know your place!_" Evan gleefully raised his wand, barely restraining his excitement as his dark magic swelled, amplifying pleasurably within his core.

_**Plonk**._

Tendrils of black particles erratically pulsed as Evan made a wide, yet concise slashing motion; the stark contrast between his powerful motions—between gentility and cruelty—effectively describes his twisted personality and philosophies, as the ostensibly poised aristocrat mirthfully tore through the ashen skin and organs of Macnair's body with a sickening squelch. As the cursed, ill-fated man opened his blood-filled mouth to a silent scream, dark, vivacious blood splattered across the dilapidated walls; his intestines were brutally mutilated, ribs splintered, organs arbitrarily strewn across the abhorrent prison. Reflected in Macnair's dying, bistered eyes were the ferocious, deranged aqua pools of his killer, manic blue eyes illuminated by the abrupt burst of magic from the inflicted, revolting savagery.

After the carnage, the alluring dark magic steadily ebbed away, returning the icy dungeon to it's silent, ominous state; the only utterance of sound came from the light rain and the muted panting from the exertion of the dark, wild magic used to completely, inhumanely destroy another man. The slight trickling of precipitation gradually turned into a heavy rainfall, pouring from the corroded, barred opening of the prison, falling and rippling, suffusing with the pools of tainted blood and rotting matter. As it passed through the horrifying image of a disfigured, mangled human body and a tortured, battered boy, the viscous liquid continued to quietly flow down to the partially clogged, molded drain, as if nature itself was mourning, escaping from the monstrosity contained in such a bleak, desolate place.

As Evan stood there with his eyes closed, his robes drenched with blood and rain—a heady scent of copper and freshly overturned earth— he felt it. That peculiar, _strange_ feeling that he had encountered earlier before he focused on Macnair. He thought it was nothing, that it was just the lingering effects of dark magic; but, his mind refused to settle, remaining obstinately stagnant. He wanted to ignore it, as his '_playtime_,' delicately put by Bellatrix, was coming to an end. Though, he couldn't ignore it. It was calling to him.

Evan _knew _something was there—waiting, crawling underneath his skin, simmering just below the surface of his mind—a familiar darkness that called to him the day he swore undying loyalty to his Lord. He quickly spun around, droplets of rain splashing against the red-tinted, dusky bricks as his robes followed his swift movement.

His chestnut hair clung stubbornly to his damp, chilled face as the aristocrat frustratingly searched within the darkness that refused to be lit by a simple _lumos. _Tightly clutching his ebony wand, knuckles pale from his growing unease and the biting cold, his eyes deftly shifted left and right, looking for the source of that unnatural, indecipherable feeling that was so very much similar to the Dark Lord.

As he carefully trudged towards the cell across from the remnants of Macnair, he noticed the odd distortions of the shadows, similar to the forms of deadly lethifolds.

_Odd_. Evan thought. _It's like it's protecting something... a disillusionment over a particular cell..._

The crude, corrupt apparitions surrounded him almost tauntingly, before languorously dissolving into the intoxicating darkness before him. The darkness accepted him; it embraced him—seducing him as he drew nearer, caressing his ears with soothing whispers and esoteric prospects.

"._..come..."_

Submitting to such a temptation, Evan drew closer, beginning to see the dewy, rusty bars of the adjacent cell. Droplets slid down the bars, freezing in it's path as the bitter coldness seemed to increase with every step he took—his dragon-hide boots becoming susceptible to such frost as the chill started to consume his extremities. It was as if the source of magic was warning him of his plight, attempting to make him turn away from the mysterious allure.

"…_.wants...to...leave..."_

He visibly shuddered. He wasn't leaving.

"_...the...boy..."_

With a precise flourish of his wand, the cell was unlocked.

"…_.wants...to...leave..."_

Bathed by the waxing moonlight, a small, lithe boy turned to gaze at Evan, his shoulder length, wavy tresses crusted from his repugnant cage. Luminous emerald eyes, framed by long, sooty lashes, seemed to penetrate him, as the grime did nothing to hide his fae-like appearance.

"_**Beautiful**_," Evan breathed, enraptured by such a beguiling, innocent sight, "_**absolutely beautiful.**_"


	3. Chapter 2: Secret Under the Moonlight

**Disclaimer:** Don't own Harry Potter, J.K. Rowling does.

OK. This was way too late of an update, sorry. I've been losing ranked games on league so I haven't been feeling up to the whole updating thang. Also, I've been preeeetttty busy lately with the whole life thing. That shit's cray, man! Also I've been taking advice from a certain someone. You may see a..._change_...in my writing that would suit a... _general_... audience. This is pretty short, but the next chapter will be longer, sorry!

* * *

**Chapter 2: Secret under the Moonlight**

* * *

_I know they say it's over, we can't go on like this,_

_The moonlight makes us ardent and the sun returns our sense..._

_But we ain't much for orders, we can't go on like this,_

_But we can live forever with secrets on our lips..._

* * *

_Bathed by the waxing moonlight, a small, lithe boy turned to gaze at Evan, his shoulder length, wavy tresses crusted from his repugnant cage. Luminous emerald eyes, framed by long, sooty lashes, seemed to penetrate him, as the grime did nothing to hide his fae-like appearance._

_"**Beautiful**," Evan breathed, enraptured by such a beguiling, innocent sight, "**absolutely beautiful.**"_

* * *

Uncaring of his surroundings, Rosier carefully moved to kneel down in front of the boy, his blood-stained robes slowly sinking into the murky, repulsive floor. As he neared the boy, Evan never once broke his gaze with the child's own haunting eyes, as he felt that it was something that should not ever be forgotten; from the sheen of ghostly, incandescent light that shone from the barred opening of the cell, to the brilliant green eyes illuminated by such mysterious moonlight, Evan knew that he would cherish the beautiful boy.

He would never forget his eyes. It penetrated his very soul, holding such fragility and loneliness. Such eyes made his heart ache and his throat dry when the boy's broken eyes held so much sorrow. It was so full of longing...

So full of _emptiness_.

_Why do you affect me so?_

Being under the child's sole gaze, the boy became everything to him: a resplendent gem obscured by untold secrets and fading memories. He did not need to speak, nor did he need to move. The child just needed to look at Evan with his glorious emerald eyes, and he will be his.

_Without actions, without words._

His beautiful, beloved child-_-_a child protected and embraced by darkness, yet so untainted, so _wondrous_...

The duelist shifted closer to the child, green eyes following his every movement. His calloused hands reverently caressed the begrimed face of the fae-child, tracing the boy's delicate features- his soft brows, his pert nose, _his full, rosy lips..._

He let out a breathy, trembling sigh, his hands quivering from his tenuous actions.

"Oh, child...What have you done to me?"

The boy did not answer, and continued to gaze at him, but his eyes held a sort of curiosity. _A sort of wonderment_, Evan thought. Deep pools of emerald bore into his own eyes, intensely searching for something. As if finding what he was searching for, the boy looked away abruptly and slightly shifted forward, his tattered rags scraping across the fetid floor with the swift movement.

The child's eyes seemed to glow as his small, dirt-stained hands lightly covered his own large hand. His frail fingers, rough under the grinding of gravel and damp stone, gently intertwined with his. With another deft glance to the aristocrat, the boy tightened his grasp, tentatively leaning his cheek against the palm of Evan's hand.

"_Sweet child." _Evan whispered with the slightest upturn of his lips.

At the man's smile, the boy relaxed, his hooded eyes peeking under the cover of his lush, ebony lashes. When his ruby lips parted to speak, Evan let the melodious quality of the boy's voice wash over him, closing his eyes to the spoken words—almost missing the meaning, the _innocence_, behind them.

"_Are you here to take me away?"_

Wispy tendrils of black particles seemed to leak from the sordid walls of the prison, languidly dancing between the scarce linings of luminescence.

"And where would I take you?" Evan murmured, his mind heavy, dazed with such onslaught of dark, enticing magic. The child's soothing voice, along with the alluring power, pulled him closer, and he could not turn away. It was as if the child was a siren—his captivating beauty, paired with the dulcet tenor of his voice, can mesmerize, _enrapture_, even the strongest men.

The boy held Evan's enamored gaze for a prolonged moment, before finally closing his lucid eyes.

"_To death." _

The moist, tenebrous air around them seemed to thicken with the silence; the dew from the rain glistened on the expanse of Evan's golden cuffs, before trickling down to the floor, cutting the silence with a slight _plop _as it collided with the surface of a shallow puddle, the caliginous depths rippling with the sparse motion. Evan, disillusioned by silence and the sudden increase of tension in the air, nervously followed the minuscule movement of the droplet, apprehension slowly gripping his sanity. His breath quickened, the staccato of his heart beats arising to the symphony of echoing droplets. Something felt _wrong_. It was suffocating him, viciously latching onto his core.

_'Shadows,'_ Evan thought, his breaths coming out in shallow pants, _'the shadows are moving.'_

The cell darkened around him, with the only light coming from the light that illuminated the boy's countenance. The temperature of the prison began to drop immensely; puddles that once harbored the aftermath of rain began to freeze—the dungeon floor cracking with the encroachment of ice and frost.

Yet the boy still sat there, eyes closed, with his hands embracing Evan's arm.

"_...the boy..."_

The shadows neared him, surrounding him in it's malevolent glory.

"_...boy...take the boy..."_

They encased him in a flurry of whispers and darkness, their voices growing louder and stronger as they seemed to chant the same words, over and over again.

"_**...save him..."**_

Evan trembled with the weight of the words.

The seemingly stagnant tendrils of magic suddenly darted between the trails of moonlight, deftly twirling around the shadows; the amorphous wisps curled around the boy's embrace of Evan's arm, indolently enveloping the boy with a sort of familiarity.

The aristocrat swore he could feel the boy shudder, leaning more into their intertwined hands. His eyes darted to the child, before widening in shock.

_'He's crying.' _

The fair boy was wracked with tremors. His delicately arched brows were deeply knotted together, his plush lips quivering. Desperation seized Evan's heart as he watched the tears pave a way down the grimy face, his fear temporarily quelled. He wanted to do something, he wanted to wipe those tears away—to say that everything was alright—that he was safe, and that nothing would make him lonely ever again. '_Such hopelessness_,' Evan thought, feeling strong passion and empathy for the boy.

The wisps trailed up Evan's arm, lingering around his dark mark, before—to his astonishment— permeating his skin.

Terror-stricken, the death eater could only watch as the unknown magic pervaded his body.

'_It went_ **inside**_ of the dark mark. __Inside!' _

Evan's mind was in a colossal disarray, his rampaging thoughts of inexplicable fear and unexplained possibilities struck true to his fear of the wrath of his Dark Lord. The mark was a symbol of loyalty, untouched and vivid— pitch black reminder of lifetime servitude on his pale skin. But s_omething _was creating a rift through such a link, altering it, pulling at it's magic, yet he could not move. His body was paralyzed, and his magic was naught under the influence of such dense magic.

Evan's mentality quaked with confusion, his quavering breaths misting with the collision of fluctuating temperatures.

Just as his fear neared the pinnacle of his sanity, he felt the suffocating latch to his core release. Strangely, his dark mark felt pleasant, as if it was soothing his soul. As he attempted to move away, he was hit with a strange dizziness. The air pulsed erratically as Evan swayed on the floor, hair clinging to his face with viscous sheen of sweat and grime.

_'What is happening?'_ Evan moaned, his free hand cradling his head. _'When has it turned so hot?'_

He took in a shuddering breath, when it happened.

.

_The darkness._

.

He felt it course through him, enveloping him in..._warmth_. His body shuddered with the magnitude of such immense, raw power. His hands, shaking with the colossal pressure of dark magic, grasped the hem of his sodden robes as he gasped in pleasure. His vision blurred as he became overwhelmed, his core becoming invaded by a bond he could not deny.

With one last surge of magic, it came to an end. The man subsequently released his grip on the child's hands, and collapsed unceremoniously to the feculent floor.

His aqua eyes turned hazy as he drifted into the world of unconsciousness, blearily hearing the distressed cries of the beautiful child. _His_ child.

"_...please...d...ep..."_

"_...so...sorry..."_

"_**Please don't leave me!"**_


	4. Chapter 3: Like the Sun

**Disclaimer: **_The Harry Potter series is owned by J.K. Rowling. This fiction is for the sole purpose of my own personal enjoyment and does not fiscally benefit me._

I appreciate all your guys' reviews, and I am glad that you guys enjoy what I write. I always try to update as soon as possible, but there are days where I stare at a blank page for hours, and no progress would be made. It feels like a job now. It's not very enjoyable. I've also been struggling with familial problems that makes me feel so _alone_ and _depressed. _I'm living with someone who makes me immensely miserable and I can't bear with it most of the time. Anyway, please enjoy this chapter.

* * *

**Chapter 3: Like the Sun**

* * *

_Fear and panic in the air..._

_I want to be free from desolation and despair._

…

_When will loneliness be over?_

...

* * *

_With one last surge of magic, it came to an end. The man subsequently released his grip on the child's hands, and collapsed unceremoniously to the feculent floor._

_His aqua eyes turned hazy as he drifted into the world of unconsciousness, blearily hearing the distressed cries of the beautiful child. **His**_ _child._

_"...please...d...ep..."_

_"...so...sorry..."_

_"**Please don't leave me!"**_

* * *

_._

_It was so cold._

.

Empty.

.

_Hollow_.

.

The grime underneath his chipped nails grounded against his knees as he tightly gripped his pale, thin legs underneath his head, shivering vehemently as the air around him gradually grew even colder.

This bitterness...this cold, unrelenting reality he was forced to endure...

It was the only thing he knew.

Years of hopelessness...of decaying, pungent flesh that slowly shifted, morphing into quiet shadows and echoing whispers...

It lingered, fading into his memories as he grew to learn of the many forms of death...

Death was supposed to be unforgiving. It was supposed to take him away to rot, alone and afraid—the same way that his friends and family did. Death was unkind.

He understood that fact. That was just the way it was.

So he watched the brutality—the crazed, ravenous hunger that was so prevalent in the duelist's eyes— the _**satisfaction**_ reflected in such eyes as he rapaciously, gracefully tore through his former ally with monstrous fervor. He watched as the man's livid blue orbs held a sort of immense, manic glee as the bright, fiery blood splattered across the walls of the dungeon, the viscous liquid clinging vibrantly on the walls, painting a picture of lunacy and desperation. He watched as the sallow, horrified man opened his mouth for a soundless scream as his bones shattered, vivaciously splintering into a rain of blood and chipped bones. The malefic debris danced around his murderer— a strange, euphemistic depiction of fire and snow that left him breathless—wonderment reflected in his green eyes.

This man had the face of a kind, peaceful man, but the countenance of a belligerent demon.

Footsteps echoed as it scraped along the chipped, dusky bricks of the dungeon floor, filth staining the hem of the man's intricate robes as the aristocrat neared the cell.

_His_ cell.

The boy shivered, his breath misting as the frost and bitter cold nipped at his pale, luminous skin.

Gripping his legs tighter, knuckles white from his grip, the boy trembled, closing his eyes.

.

_He has found me._

_._

Oh, and such _warmth_ does he bring.

.

Calloused palms cradled his sordid face; and with his long, blood-stained fingers, the man brushed against his rough, crusted skin with such acute gentility that he felt something within him burst—reacting violently to a man he thought would show him the mercy of death. It coiled within the pit of his stomach, clawing at his soul, lashing at the oblivious man that released the emotions that were once tightly locked behind thick walls of endless suffering and despair.

_Guilt. Shame. Loneliness. Hope. _

_**Love**._

He remembered love; it was felled by the inevitable. Everything did.

But this man...

_'Such_ _kindness_.' His lips trembled, his long, dark lashes glistened with shed tears as he took the man's hand into his own. '_Such_ _wanting_.'

He closed his eyes, reveling in the taste of tenderness as he tightened his grasp on the man. He leaned closer to the warmth, nuzzling into skin, taking in the heady scent of iron and rainfall. Dry lips parted, as if to sate a severe thirst that has been precipitously awakened.

He burned with such _wanting_, with the need to _feel_—the need to have this man show him love again. _To be_ _loved_.

As if they heard him, his shadows wrapped around his body in a soothing embrace. It comforted him, quelling his rampaging emotions, before whispering one unsettling promise in his ear.

.

"_...and he'll be yours..."_

"_...for as long as he lives..."_

_._

Panic gripped the boy as he heard such words. The darkness shrouded the man, paralyzing him as it seeped within him, coiling around a pitch-black mark that wholly contrasted with his pale skin.

_'No! Please, don't hurt this man! I didn't know, I didn't know,' _he choked, tears clearing a path on his grimy cheeks, his hands still tightly clutched to the man.

_'Let him go, he's different! He's not one of them!'_

The voices invaded his mind in a flurry of whispers, voices fluctuating into a myriad of eerie groans and screams.

"_...child...wants to leave..."_

Slowly, agonizingly,the boy watched as the man collapsed in front of him, his silk robes fluttering as his face morphed into shock.

"_No! No, please, don't sleep!" _

He shook the man, desperately trying to make him stay awake.

The boy broke into sobs, his tears staining the man's robes.

"_I'm so sorry..."_

It was his fault.

"_Please don't leave me!"_

_**Everything was.**_

The warmth that he did not deserve, the emotions he was allowed to feel for such a fleeting moment...he had destroyed it, just as he always did.

Knowing this, the boy still could not help but to _**burn**_.

Emerald eyes, wide and dilated, disbelievingly stared at his trembling, nail-chipped hands. His hands, discolored by the years of split skin and rotting matter, shook with a ferocity that belied his capitulating thoughts.

_**It burns.**_

He released a raw, heart-wrenching scream that shook the walls and pierced the slivers of shadows that enveloped his body. Tears flowed down his face as he screamed, his eyes blood-shot and desperate as he tightly gripped his head.

There was so much _pain_.

The ravaging flames licked at his insides, singeing his core with a malicious darkness that desecrated, no, _destroyed_ the foundation of his facade of understanding and acceptance with absolute conviction. It was ascending, crawling it's way to his turbulent mind; it was consuming him as he coughed violently, his chest heaving with scorching breaths; horror and fear burned through his rationality as he suffocated from the ashes of denial and confusion.

In the place of the bitter frost was the flames that consumed him, wrath apparent in its furious pathway to his heart.

As if knowing his affliction, the shadows enveloped him, almost constricting him as the moans echoed and sighed in the resonating cell.

.

"_Do you fear death, child?"_

_._

"**No!" **He sobbed.

The slivers of moonlight flickered and gently shone upon the boy's face, as if reassuring him, the suffering moans abating.

.

Then there was silence.

.

"_Then, do you fear the light?"_

_._

He shakily gripped the aristocrat's silken robes, gravel cutting into his pale, knobby knees as he leaned further into the man's warmth.

The back of his throat burned as he sought to voice his conviction.

"No," he swallowed.

"What I fear is loss. I fear that if I accept this man...if I were to grasp the tangible thread of _love_ that had been sewn within the fabric of my memories..."

His grip was white, trembling as he gripped the man's robes with increasing force as the weight of his words forced him to face the stark reality that had otherwise been ignored.

"Once again, I feel that I would lose everything that had been cherished..."

His voice trailed off, hoarse and broken as he continued into sobs, burying himself into the man's soft robes.

"What do I have now, except the cold and shadows that had been nursing the void of my heart?"

"_What have I now, except the pain and suffocating memories that threaten to consume my very **soul**?"_

_._

The mark on the aristocrat's forearm emitted a sparse, yet ethereal light that made the boy's breath hitch with anticipation and disbelief.

.

"_Oh, child...you have purpose."_


	5. Chapter 4: Blindness

******Disclaimer: **___The Harry Potter series is owned by J.K. Rowling. This fiction is for the sole purpose of my own personal enjoyment and does not fiscally benefit me._

* * *

**Hey everyone. Thank you for all of your reviews—it really kept me going. I've been struggling with fiscal problems and it really took a toll on my energy and motivation to write, so here we are. Blindness quote from Anais Nin, and chapter inspired by Jack White's version of "Love is Blindness."**

Important notes:

Hello. To clear up some confusion, the previous chapter was the same as chapter 2...only in Harry's point of view. If you are confused, re-read chapter 2, when Evan finds Harry. No, Harry is not a zombie...remember, the kids in the dungeon had a caretaker to keep them alive. Remember in Chapter 1, when Evan Rosier said that they were to be trained? Well, before the guard was killed by Evan (for torturing the children and killing off most of them), he was responsible for feeding the kids. However, he had no responsibility to clean the cells...and, he can just blame their deaths on weakness, and that they had no place in the Dark Lord's army.

Because the guard, Macnair, was attracted to young boys, Harry was particularly in danger so his "shadows" kept him obscured, yet noticeable enough to know that ___someone was there_. That kept him alive and fed, but still neglected overall.

Why was Macnair torturing young boys? He was reduced to a trivial, low-ranked post within the dark lord's army when he, in his opinion, contributed a lot (in the book he convinced the giants to help Voldemort). He was also under the command of Bellatrix, which is offensive to him as she is an insane, flamboyant woman he deems unintelligent and useless. It's no wonder why she thinks that he is definitely not one to have interest in.

The children were war victims, as such, they were mostly kept in dungeons to be neglected until someone figures out what to do with them. That was Bellatrix's job. As we all know it, she's crazy, so it makes sense why the prisoners were rotting, even tortured, in their cells. Children were no different in her eyes. This is where Evan comes in, because it was too trivial for herself to do it, she sends Evan to check up on the children. ___That's_ how the story starts.

* * *

_"What do I have now, except the cold and shadows that had been nursing the void of my heart?"_

_"____What have I now, except the pain and suffocating memories that threaten to consume my very __****__**soul**____?"_

_The mark on the aristocrat's forearm emitted a sparse, yet ethereal light that made the boy's breath hitch with anticipation and disbelief._

"___Oh, child...you have purpose."_

* * *

_The flowers sprout, and bud, and grow, and glow. . . ._

_ Like a flower in the summertime, so does our heart take refreshment and bloom._

_ Our body is like a flower that blossoms and quickly withers. . . ._

_ Perish relentlessly and bloom once more, ye flowers who tremble and fall and turn to dust._

* * *

Faint whispers of wind swept against the collar of Evan Rosier's robes as the moonlight shone through the barred opening above him, casting a hallowed appearance as it reflected the slight sheen of his sweat. His chest rose and fell with quickened, shallow breaths as his body thrashed with subconscious pain.

Eerie shadows cast by the dead trees created an almost acheronian scenery for the dungeon cell—the reflected luminosity of the damp bricks shimmered as droplets of water fell into puddles, rippling the surface of pools that clung to Evan's brunette locks.

As the mark on his arm glowed, it gradually clung to his skin, simmering, consuming him with the promise of prepensed affliction.

Evan groaned as he began to wake. Disoriented, he furrowed his brows as he realized the ache of his muscles, the tenuous burn of his skin, and the dryness of his throat. The obsidian floor, in its rough, grotesque filth, grounded against his damp, silken clothes as he attempted to move.

.

_Where was he? Where was the boy?_

_._

Evan shuddered. The darkness, noxious and sinister in its intent, wrapped its clandestine shroud around his soul and sight. As his eyes refused to open, sealed shut by an ominous subsistence, he realized that he was trapped.

Apprehension began to crawl up his spine as he felt an immense darkness, malevolent and virulent encompassing him.

He bit back a cry as a foreign presence suddenly entered his mind on its own volition, delving into his soul, revealing, searching, constricting.

No, no, no_, **no.**_

His hands, violently shaking from panicked trepidation, began to viciously claw at his decorative robes in a turbulent frenzy.

_His innermost, sacrosanct secrets were for no being, no creature to see!_

The ubiquitous bleakness that pervaded his noesis created a sense of fear that struck deep in his very being; agony and urgency seized all rational, cognitive reason as he hazardously struggled for absolution.

.

_Get out**, get out!**_

_**.**_

The presence persisted in its purpose—traces of laughter echoing in his mind.

.

A blood-curdling scream was vehemently ripped from him as the presence tore through his defenses. Callous and dispassionate in its process, it gave little privacy to his memories, revealing the most darkest, forgotten, yet cherished ones.

Fragments of memories overwhelmed him as he convulsed, his fists tightly gripping the stained, silken cloth, impoverished and lost within the recesses of his own psyche.

.

* * *

_Her golden hair shone brilliantly, illuminated by lavishly decorated chandelier. She chuckled as her brightly painted nails clicked against her wine glass, her heavily lidded eyes glancing towards the ballroom. As she brought the wine glass to her painted lips, she paused, sighing._

"_Oh, Evan, love is drowning in a deep well. All the secrets—and no body else to tell."_

_Her deep blue eyes then turned to him, before smiling bitterly. _

"_Love is blindness."_

* * *

_._

Evan desperately sobbed, his nails embedding into his fists—his exposed skin—hopelessly pleading for the memories to stop coming.

.

* * *

_Splintered, upholstered furniture and trinkets were littered over the lush carpet. Broken pieces of glass were erratically strewn over the floor, her gilded hair disheveled in her madness._

_She released a long, heart-wrenching scream, her eyes wild as her blood-painted nails clawed at her powdered neck, her veins protrusive against her pale, translucent skin. Tears coursed down her face, leaving tracks of smeared mascara and damp powder. _

_Her eyes then flickered to him as he flinched. Instead of a pair of familiar, deep, beautiful pools, were eyes of immeasurable anguish— of ceaseless suffering and abuse. She haggardly stumbled near him, mouthing something indecipherable. _

_Her lips quavered as she disbelievingly stared at her scarred, bleeding hands, the glass at her feet creating a sickening crunch._

_Trembling, she grasped another expensive vase, only to savagely throw it to the wall next to him._

_Evan shook uncontrollably, as fear overwhelmed him. _

_She pointed a shaky finger at him, releasing a self-deprecatory laugh._

"_You, you—the spawn of a devil known as Rosier. My child, his child."_

* * *

_._

He cried out, terrified as the presence continued to rupture his memories. He needed to forget. He didn't want remember the emptiness, the confusion.

The years of built up confidence—his countenance—never did he want this memory to resurface, occluding it deep within his mind.

Frantically, he continued to claw at his torn robes, needing something, _someone_.

.

* * *

_She cradled his head between her bloodied hands, her quivering, sardius-colored nails embedding into his tear-stained cheeks as she gave him a shaky smile._

"_Love is blindness," she whispered, her voice harsh and tremulous. Her fingers shook as she disparagingly tucked a lock of his brunette curls behind his ear. _

_He was drowning in her deep blue eyes, bloodshot and twisted with desolate sorrow. Her lashes, damp with tears and thick with mascara, stuck to her skin as she sobbed. It never helped with the rampaging emotions—the tears. The actions of his father were incorrigible, abhorred and unmistakable. Father did not love her, yet, foolishly she turned a blind eye to him every time she witnessed his affairs._

"_I'm so sick of it," she shrieked, "I don't want to see!" _

"_Why don't you just take the knife," she brokenly laughed, lips stained and chapped from red wine and illness, "and twist it right inside of me?" _

"_Ohh," she wailed, the luminescent pieces of glass creating an inviolable, forsaken appearance reflected by her lucid, obfuscated eyes, "blindness."_

_As she stood, her hair, however haggard, was lucid in the moonlight. Her lament, ignored and forgotten, could never subside. Yet she still stands on broken shards—a sea of reflected blood—a despairing french noble embraced in the light of the night. _

_He knew, oh he knew, that could never forget this moment._

* * *

_._

As the bright, viscous blood angrily seeped out of the crescent shaped wounds marred into his palms, he felt the threads interweaving his sanity slowly ripping as the cold, metallic taste of steel slowly cut its way through his breath, his life—his heart.

.

* * *

"_Father, she is dying. Mother is dying." _

_His dark eyes held nothing but irritation and contempt as he stared down at his son._

"_Then she could take her disgraceful actions with her."_

_With finality, he left for a meeting with the Dark Lord, his cloak billowing in the wake of his arrogant steps without another word._

* * *

_._

He remembered her despondent eyes, so empty and lost, gazing listlessly towards the doorway, waiting for her husband that would never come.

.

* * *

_She closed her eyes and sighed, her lungs only able to take in attenuated breaths. Her eyes, her aqua pools, it had dried long ago. There were no more tears, no more tolerance—just acceptance. Her hands, carefully folded across her abdomen, were no longer brightly painted. Her golden hair gradually dulled over time—her voice just a fragment of what melodic tone it was before._

_She stared attentively at the white roses on her bedside table, before smiling faintly._

"_Secrecy, silence." She whispered, her voice weak and hoarse. "Even now, he demands that much from me."_

_She slowly turned to her son, her thin, pale arms slipping against her silken night clothes and sheets, only to rest her cold palm against his cheek._

"_Roses are beautiful, are they not?" _

_Evan uncomfortably nodded, not knowing what to say._

"_Roses...they have many different meanings...each color, each amount."_

_She turned away from him, taking a rose from the bouquet. As she sat up, she started to caress the soft petals, staring unflinchingly at the flower as the thorns pierced her skin, droplets of blood trickling down the pale expanse of her ashen wrist._

"_Roses can signify innocence, passion, and seduction—yet they can also signify bereavement and destruction. A rosebush insidiously harbors them all: the pain, the desire—"_

_She suddenly crushed the rose tightly in her hands, her sunken eyes boring into the bruised petals with acute intensity._

"—_the deaths."_

_She then released the disfigured petals—he watched, fascinated, as they were aimlessly scattered across the pristine white sheets, the blood-stained petals a stark contrast against the immaculate, exquisite covers embroidered with the Rosier family's crest._

_Although, he thought, they were still beautiful in their own right._

* * *

_._

Evan gasped, wide awake to a daunting set of watery emerald eyes, his chest heaving as he shakenly clutched a piece torn cloth from his severed robes.

"Are you _okay?"_ The boy anxiously asked, obviously distressed as his wispy, thin hands gripped Evan's arm, hurriedly pulling him to a sitting position as he examined the wounds on his torso.

"I'm fine," he rasped, stertorous as he struggled to orient himself.

Trembling, the noble acquiesced to the boy's attempts at assistance, painstakingly pushing himself up by supporting his elbow on the atramentous floor of the cell. Stained, tattered robes abraded his skin as his body_—_slick with sweat and sudor_—_twisted from its position.

Exhausted, Evan wearily noted that he was still grasping the shredded cloth.

Slowly, carefully, he opened his calloused hands, revealing an intricately embroidered cloth, the golden threads of a rosebush glimmering proudly in the luminescence.

.

"_The Rosier crest_," he breathed.

.

He smiled faintly, nostalgically caressing the pattern with blemished fingers_—_the boy observing his movement confoundedly.

"This was once the bane of my life_—_my existence. The secrets, the silence_—_it all was maddening."

Evan continued on to stroke the elaborate pattern, meticulously tracing the image of a snake that was intertwining the decorative rosebush.

"Now it has become part of me, as I now wear it proudly on my chest. How ironic this is, as I despised my father_—_my heritage, vowing to reject the servitude that was going to be passed onto me from my father. To leave_—_to escape, secluded in the muggle world that my mother adored so much. Yet, I knew...I knew that I would only be prolonging my mark, as it was inevitable. The war could not be avoided, just as my mother could not avoid her blindness in love."

The aristocrat turned to the boy, softly brushing his fingers through his ebony curls pensively before heavily sighing.

.

"Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don't know how to replenish it's source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings."

.

The boy stared back at the noble, unwavering_—_ his small, squalid hands wrapping around Evan's wrist as he cradled his begrimed cheek.

.

"Choosing to live and love in blindness...just kills us in the end." The boy murmured, surprising Evan with his eloquence.

.

The noble released a diminutive laugh, agreeing with the boy's sentiments.

"Ah, yes...love is never blindness..." Evan paused, tightening his grip on the boy.

.

_Her deep blue eyes then turned to him, before smiling bitterly. _

"_Love is blindness."_

_._

"...Just an intangible feeling of unremitting, unrelenting yearning."

.

_And the presence...that baleful, lingering darkness in his mind, wanted him to remember...and somehow changed the bond of the dark mark between him and the Dark Lord._

_._

Evan closed his eyes, releasing a shuddering breath, contemplating. He then looked up towards the barred opening above them, the sparse beginnings of dawn appearing from the opaque clouds. He returned his gaze to the boy, in all his delicate, sordid beauty, and decided.

"Come on, lets get up."

He stood, gently pulling the boy up as the child's reddened knees scraped against the decayed mold and gravel of the obsidian bricks.

"What is your name? Ah_—_I suppose it doesn't matter now," he mused.

The boy questionably stared at him, his head tilting slightly to the side.

Evan grinned, abruptly scooping the child into his arms.

.

"From now on, you will be called 'Séraphin'." The boy in his arms slightly smiled, tracing his dark mark on his forearm fondly.

.

"Séraphin 'René' Rosier. _Serpent reborn from a rosebush!_"

With one last gleeful twirl, they both disappeared with one resonant, emphatic crack.


End file.
